


Will the Circle Be Unbroken

by trajektoria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Longing, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to cope with Sherlock's suicide, but he can't let go. The fact that he finally sorted out his feelings towards his flatmate doesn't really help. But there are ways to get a brief moment of consolation...</p><p>However, John is not the only one who is pining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [ thatsaralacey](http://thatsaralacey.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

It's like a ritual, the only constant in his life that brings him any consolation, no matter how faint and ephemeral. Beginnings are always the same. The soft clinking of keys, the creak of the front door, heavy footsteps on the stairs, the muffled thud when the bag lands on the carpet. He takes off his shoes and hangs his jacket on the rack. No one will suddenly call him to go anywhere. Nothing happens to him anymore.

No conscious thought steers his legs when they carry him to the abandoned bedroom that has almost completely lost the scent of the man who lived here more than a year ago. With each passing day, there is less and less of Sherlock's presence in the air. 

John, standing at the threshold, looks around the room tiredly. He didn't change anything here; he couldn't bring himself to do it. Sherlock's dressing gown is still draped carelessly over a chair, and his shirts, all of them of the finest quality, are hanging in an orderly row in the wardrobe and visible through the slightly parted door. Sometimes, John browses through them, feeling the delicate silky fabric on his fingertips. That usually makes him smile wanly, but not today. Today, like most days recently, he is too tired for that. John paces slowly to the bed and perches at the edge.

His hand slides over the duvet and his eyes follow the movement. He tries to picture Sherlock lying here sleeping or maybe just thinking with his fingers joined under his chin. He can almost see him, almost touch his soft skin, almost smell the sultry fragrance of his cologne. John's eyes begin to sting, and he takes a shaky breath to calm himself down, feeling his chest clench painfully. He lies down on the mattress, his limbs spread, his head between the pillows. In the past few months he often wondered why Sherlock always had two, even though he slept only on the right side, always there. John liked to childishly believe that the detective planned to invite him there one day to spend a night with him, making love slowly and muttering “I need you”s desperately against each other's lips.

The thought tears a choking sob from his throat. John rubs his face, knowing he's on the verge of breaking down. He can't allow that. He was a soldier, he is stronger than people might think. Still, God knows how many times he has mulled over the thought of ending it all. He wants desperately to divert his thoughts to more pleasant things. He turns his head and looks at the only intruder beside himself: a photograph resting on the bedside table.

It's actually a cut-out from the newspaper. The picture shows both of them, standing shoulder to shoulder, while they - or rather Sherlock - received congratulations after solving one of his cases. The detective, much to his dismay, was forced to wear the deerstalker, which involuntarily became his trademark. John stares at the uncomfortable expression on Sherlock's face and smiles in spite of his mood. He marvels at how gorgeous Holmes was, even in the striped monstrosity covering his dark, unruly curls. John knows he would sacrifice everything to run his fingers through that hair. Would it be soft? Would it be silky? Or maybe rough, like the façade hiding a good heart underneath? He would never know...

That bastard. That utter bastard! How could he have done this to his best friend? A suicide? Really, Sherlock? That’s bullshit, the whole world was wrong. John knows that Sherlock wasn’t a fake, and no one would convince him otherwise. He had seen how that marvellous brain of Sherlock’s worked, how effortlessly it reached into the deepest corners of a person’s mind. Sherlock was many things, but a fraud wasn’t one of them.

A douchebag, yes. Occasionally, even more than that. He could be an insufferable git, but John knew the real him. He saw the man Sherlock truly was. And, God, he had fallen for him so ardently and irrevocably! Not only for his mind, though it was the thing that had struck John the hardest from the very moment they’ve met. Slowly, he began to notice the small and endearing details: how perfect Sherlock’s smile was when he meant it, how flippantly beautiful and graceful his every movement was, how the sun got caught in his dark curls, how his pale eyes lit up every time some maddening idea appeared in his brain. At one point, John stopped dating women; Sherlock was taking more and more space in his life and his heart. And it was fine, it was all fine. John was happy. Or as close as he could be to being happy without feeling their lips touching and their eager bodies pressing frantically against one another. Would Sherlock ever feel this way about him? Another thing John would never know...

With that thought racking in his brain, John slowly reaches to his crotch. Using only one hand, he unzips his fly and unbuttons the trousers. He used to have problems with that, but he learnt in time. His fingers dive into his pants, the red ones that Sherlock bought him as a joke for Christmas, and he takes out his cock. He's not even hard yet, the grief making it borderline impossible to even breathe. He wants to forget for a moment, to wash away the loneliness and despair with pleasure. His eyes fix on Sherlock's pale face as he half-heartedly gives himself a few enticing strokes. 

Everything suddenly changes. With Sherlock's image burned into his pupils, John closes his eyes. He's not alone anymore; he feels the detective's burning lips brushing against his neck, teasing him. He tilts his head back, exposing more skin to be marked by his lover. That lean, seductive body presses onto him and Sherlock's deft fingers dance on John's naked torso up and down, playing with the scarce hair on his chest, his thumb circling around the hardening nipple. The heat builds up in John's stomach and travels down to his crotch. He gasps and his hips buck instinctively, thrusting against Sherlock's thigh. The detective chuckles, that beautiful baritone rumbling in his throat, and he snakes his hand between their bodies, coiling his fingers around the base of John's now fully erect cock. John purrs as he feels Sherlock moving slowly along the shaft and then pausing at the foreskin to fondle it gently. John bites his lip to stop a moan from escaping his mouth. He's overwhelmed, he's falling apart and when Sherlock's thumb flickers across his slit, spreading pre-cum across his glans, John is reduced to a symphony of desperate pleads. He wants his perfect detective, he wants him whole. And then Sherlock kneels on both sides of his hips, lube dripping from his already wide opened anus and he lowers himself on John. 

John's mind switches off. All he can feel is Sherlock's contorting muscles, engulfing him, leading him into the world of pleasure. John thrusts hard, finding a rhythm that suits them both. Sherlock is riding him hard, rolling his hips, droplets of sweat streaming down his chest and hanging at the rim of his navel. John thinks he is beautiful. With his skin glistening, his cock twitching and swollen, his hair a mess, Sherlock is the most handsome man in the world. And that is John's last conscious thought before he slides into the frenzy of movement, of friction, of sloppy caresses, of guttural moans. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, his smell, the heat of his body, the name – John's name – that dies on his lips when the orgasm racks his body and his semen splutters on his lover's stomach. And John is coming to, falling, crashing on the shores of lust, his toes curling, his muscles on the point of snapping before he fills Sherlock up with the aftermath of their love. He relaxes, his breath still hitched, as he looks up at his lover with tenderness. 

But there is no Sherlock, never has been, never will be. As John opens his eyes he finds himself with his hand wrapped around his softening shaft, sweaty and sticky, alone on the crumpled bed among the remains of Sherlock's life. 

John feels the misery creeping up again, the emptiness inside his chest unbearable, too painful to express with words. He is vulnerable and broken, with a heart devoid of any hope or purpose. He wipes his stained hand against his trousers as the other brushes away the tears from his cheeks. 

Another day like this was bound to come. A day of raw suffering and loneliness, broken only by a couple minutes of blissful oblivion. 

“I love you, Sherlock...” John whispers to the photograph on the bedside table. Before standing up and leaving the room, he casts one last longing glance at the bed. He's ready to last out another senseless day.


	2. Chapter 2

It's like a ritual - the only constant in his life that brings him any consolation, no matter how faint and ephemeral. Everything around him changes – places, faces, traces – but this, this burning longing, remains the same no matter where fate decides to lead him next.

Sherlock walks out of the bathroom clad only with a towel wrapped around his bony hips. His hand rakes in a dispirited gesture through his damp curls. He's physically and mentally tired after an arduous journey, but he knows it was worth it; he didn't come to this place in vain. One of Moriarty's men is hiding here. Here, meaning in Wrocław, Poland, and Sherlock has no doubt that he's going to get the elusive criminal soon, even before he learns how to pronounce correctly the strange name of this city. If the information provided by Mycroft's informer will check out, Jakub Maj, the spider at the centre of Central European criminal web, dies tomorrow. Another man off the list. Not many are left, thankfully.

Sherlock opens the curtains and looks out the window at the busy street below his hotel room. He lets his thoughts wander aimlessly and - as he often does - he ends up thinking about Baker Street. He misses it more than he could ever imagine - his own bed, his armchair, his violin. But above everything else he misses John, his good old John, whose heart he had to break so cruelly.

Sherlock sighs and lets go of the curtain before he turns to the bed, throws the towel casually on the lamp, and lies down on the duvet. His suitcase remains unpacked; there's no point. He's always on the move, always ready to pursue another criminal that can even remotely pose a threat to John.

John...

It's been long, too long, and Sherlock misses him horribly. Even more so because John thinks he is dead. The kind doctor didn't deserve all that pain, not in the least. But it won't be long now; just a couple of months longer and Sherlock will come back. He is both thrilled and scared at the thought. Mycroft keeps him posted about how John copes with being alone (he doesn't), how he buries himself in work (far too much), how he shuns human company (all the time). Will he ever forgive Sherlock for hurting him so deeply? Will Sherlock ever forgive himself, even though his rational mind keeps screaming that it was all necessary and unavoidable?

Sherlock turns his head to look at the bedside table. A photograph lies there - well, a cut-out from a newspaper, not an actual photo. Mycroft had done him a favour and got the copy of that particular issue before Sherlock was forced to hastily leave London. He used to hate that picture – he in that ridiculous hat and John beside him, trying not to burst out laughing and pretty much failing, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Seeing it, Sherlock smiles wanly as well. He had never been sentimental, but that's apparently one of the many things his flatmate changed within him. John, his brilliant, ordinary, magnificent, beautiful John. Only distance helped him to see how much the ex-army doctor meant to him, how unbearable and bleak his life was without him.

And to think that everything had started so innocently! Flatmates, colleagues, friends, soulmates... It was fine – more than fine! - Sherlock was happy. No reason not to be. John liked him, valued him, tolerated his antics, respected him, admired him, protected him, fought for him. John gave him everything he longed for in his life. Everything and so much more...

Sherlock still remembers how he returned home early from the morgue one day. John was nowhere to be found, but he heard the splash of water coming from the bathroom. A shower then. Sherlock can't really recall why did he come closer to the door. He still doesn't understand why he reached for the handle, why he unlocked the lock, and why he slipped quietly into the moist room. Not feeling the least guilty for such an invasion on his friend's privacy, Sherlock looked at the cubicle made of opaque glass. He wasn't sure what he expected, but certainly not this.

He could make out John's distorted silhouette through the steamy surface, all the curves of his naked body wet and enticing. The soldier had his back to the door, so at first Sherlock didn't understand what John was doing, hunched down and with his forehead against the wall. Only when the detective heard a guttural moan he arrived at the only possible conclusion – John was masturbating. The frantic tugs at his cock indicated that he was reaching his climax. He groaned, threw his head back and came hard with a full body spasm. Sherlock pulled back quietly, escaping to his bedroom. Deciding never to speak about it, he had to deal now with the first erection he had since he was a teenager.

Sherlock closes his eyes, feeling his chest clenching painfully. He is full of emotions: longing, sadness, rage and something else he dares not name. With his head filled with thoughts of John he notices the warmth accumulating in his abdomen that slowly migrates south. He's getting hard, the blood pumping through his growing erection. It's all John's fault. Before him, Sherlock didn't have these urges, not at all. In his youth, when his peers were beginning to explore their sexuality, Sherlock classified himself as asexual and didn't think about it any more. Until now. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps he didn't need just any person, he needed a specific one, only one to make him happy: John...

His hand moves to his downy chest. He's never been really hairy; he wonders if John would even find him attractive. Especially now. Sherlock's fingers brush against his protruding ribs and the swollen bruise on his hip. He smiles a little. He can almost hear John grumbling that he doesn't eat properly and gets too involved in dangerous situations. But John now thinks he's dead; he buried him, he mourned him, he grieved. Not for long now, John, just wait a little longer...

Sherlock's hand slides between his thighs and he gasps as he strokes himself teasingly slow from the base up to the head. All he can think about is John's mouth closing on his nipple. He licks his finger and rubs it around the hardening nub over and over again. His back arches and he stifles a little moan. Oh yes, he loves it, he wants John to suck him hard. He wants to feel those luscious lips not only on his chest but also lower, much lower, where his cock drips precum with anticipation.

His wet finger slides lower down his sternum, enters the navel briefly only to leave it with an obscene sound, and plays with the curls in his pubic area before it finally rests on his scrotum, his hands cupping his balls. The tugs of his other hand are getting strong, aggressive. He knows John is angry with him, reluctant to forget the years of loneliness and lies. Before John licks along the pulsing vein on his penis, he leaves a few bites along the shaft as a bittersweet punishment. It's painful enough to get Sherlock's attention, but not too much as to actually hurt him.

“I'm s-sorry, John...” Sherlock moans shakily. God, he is, he is so sorry, more than he had ever been in his life. He pines for John, he wants, _needs_ , to be with him again. John forgives him eventually with an understanding smile. Oh, such a beautiful smile, with tender sparks in his eyes. John loves his brilliant detective who made him suffer. It doesn't matter now, not when they had finally found each other again. John kisses away the pain and moves more gently now, taking his time to lap languidly at the slit, revelling in the salty taste on his tongue that sweeps across the deliciously pinkish glans. His teeth graze the foreskin and Sherlock's body jerks violently; he whines, he begs, he moans, he implores, wanting to be fully John's. And his lover grants his wish, swallowing him whole up to the base. John deepthroats him, bobbing his head up and down, up and down, humming with pleasure, which sends vibrations through Sherlock's whole erection and almost makes him come undone. Sherlock sweats, squirms, pants,curls his toes, unable to take any more of this. He throws his head back and he reaches his orgasm with a muffled groan, so strong that his vision whites out.

But there is no bliss of the afterglow, no gentle kisses and no cuddling. There is only loneliness, emptiness and a sticky mess on his hand that sends a wave of self-loathing through his brain. Sherlock wipes away the semen against the sheet and rolls on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow.

Just a little longer, John. Please, wait for me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) and [kittykat5742](http://kittykat5742.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

No more yelling, no more accusations, no more crying, resentment or violence, which took the form of John's fist colliding with Sherlock's protruding cheekbone and his heart-shaped mouth. The explanations have been uttered, the apologies have been voiced, the reluctant but not full forgiveness has been granted.

John wipes the blood away from Sherlock's face, using a soft cloth dunked in warm water. They are silent, Sherlock's head tipped to the side as he stares blankly at the kitchen wall. He's sitting stiffly on the chair and John leans over him, dabbing at the cuts he has inflicted with apologetic gentleness. The cloth slips from his quivering fingers to the floor, but the doctor's hand stays pressed affectionately to the side of his miraculously revived flatmate's face. Sherlock's eyes travel to meet John's, the same unique blend of blues and greens he remembers, and John feels an overwhelming wave of relief sweeping across his body. A breath catches in his throat and his legs give way beneath him. Only Sherlock's reflexes save him from falling to the ground. 

Sherlock tugs him onto his lap and John doesn't protest, starved for the affection. He doesn't say anything either when the detective embraces him and pulls him closer, making their foreheads touch. They stay completely silent, breaths synchronising in a peaceful but longing meditation, as they remain suspended beyond time and locked in their own private reality without pain or doubt. 

John breaks the spell first; Sherlock is still too insecure and guilt-ridden to even dare hoping. The doctor lets his thumb swipe over the man's lower lip before he places a languid kiss on the corner of the detective's mouth: a tentative gesture, a probing to find out if such familiarity is allowed, if Sherlock thinks it's all fine. A promise of doing so much more if only Sherlock wants that. 

He does. He sees right into John's heart, realising how much he had hurt him, but also knows how to mend his best friend once again. Oh, he doesn't deserve such loyalty and such love. And yet, aware of all this, Sherlock wraps his arms around John's waist and responds with a kiss of his own, a desperate and clumsy one that screams about the years of loneliness and despair. John understands. His hands card through the thick curls, dark locks, as he kisses back, letting their tongues dance and explore each other's mouths. A string of saliva still joins their lips when John pulls back an inch, his pupils blown and filled with need. 

“Oh God, Sherlock... You're back...” he says in a hushed voice, so as not to risk waking himself up with a louder sound. It must be a dream, a beautiful fantasy that will soon turn into a horror of reality. 

“I am,” he confirms as his long, slender fingers caress John's neck sweetly, saying that yes, it was all real. And it can stay that way and last if only John wishes so. John leans to the touch. Yes, he does, oh he does...

They kiss again, more passionately, lips crashing, hips grinding against one another to testify about love and desire. Sherlock stands up, still holding him. John can only twist his legs around the man's waist as the detective stumbles blindly in the direction of the bedroom. Sherlock has changed, he's much stronger but also even thinner than he was. John doesn't mind. It's still him, he can see it in the man's eyes and that's enough.

Sherlock opens the slightly parted door wider with his foot and steps inside. He takes a quick glance around. Everything's the same. Almost. He sees that someone has touched his shirts (a blond hair on the sleeve – John). Someone put that photograph – the dreadful cut-out of the detective in a deerstalker and his smiling blogger beside him, the cut-out Sherlock has taken with him all around the globe – on the bedside table (there are sweat smudges from the fingers on the paper – John missed him and thought about him frequently). Someone also had slept in his bed... No, not slept. The smell and pale stains tell a different story. Sherlock gasps softly as all the scattered fragments form a picture. He looks fondly at the man in his arms and puts him down on the bed. He loves John Hamish Watson and wants desperately to chase away his pain and heal the wounds. He has never been surer of anything in his life. 

“Sherlock...” John breathes out in awe, in veneration as he spreads out his arms in a silent plea. There's nothing Sherlock can do but obey. He climbs shakily on top of his lover and rakes his deft fingers through John's sandy hair. Ah, so they happen to be as silky as he had imagined. Sherlock duly notes that detail in his mind palace where the section devoted to his flatmate gets bigger and more important with each passing moment. 

John doesn't take too kindly to this delay. He waited for this far too long. He puts his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck and pulls him into a sloppy kiss. None of them minds the ineptness and initial awkwardness. As their hands move across each others bodies – touching, caressing, petting – a deep sigh escapes both throats. 

It has been just a fantasy for so long, but now it's happening. It's real. The touch, the smell, the taste, all of that screams reality. And, hell, it's better than either of them had imagined. 

John reaches impatiently to unbutton Sherlock's close-fitting shirt. The detective repays him in kind by divesting his lover of his jumper. Their movements become more heated and rapid. The clothes soon flow in a mingled wooly-silk cascade to the floor.

Sherlock rolls his hips and John groans. That's not enough, he craves for much more, but neither of them wants to pause and separate even for a second. They've pined for each other far too long.

“Oh, Christ,” John mutters, taking a sharp breath into his lungs, and rolls them over. He wants to be in control. And, to his surprise, Sherlock lets him, smiling in submission. That sight alone was worth all the wait. John snakes his hand between their eager bodies. Sherlock is rock hard and so is he. Their muscles are trembling with anticipation; they can't wait any longer. John takes them both in his hand, pressing one leaking cock against the other as he starts thrusting hard. This is primal, animalistic even, that desperate need to release the tension and wash away the years of loneliness and frustration. Frenulum rubs against frenulum, giving them more pleasure than they could ever get on their own. The rhythm gets more and more frantic, the sweat glistening on their bodies, their faces contorting in pleasure as they both get nearer their climax. And then the bliss sweeps through their joined bodies, the breathless moans fill the air, the heads are thrown back in unison. 

After the orgasm comes peace. John feels boneless and snuggles close to his lover, his cheek pressed to the man's chest. Not caring about the sticky mess they've made, they entwine their fingers and John hums when he feels Sherlock kissing his hair. They lay in absolute silence until the doctor finally decides to speak.

“So what happens now, Sherlock?” he whispers huskily. 

“What do you want to happen?” Sherlock replies with a question, tensing. 

John chuckles, placing a lazy kiss on Sherlock's nipple.

“Well, for starters, I'm not gonna let you out of this bed without another round. After that, we'll have a serious talk over the tea,” he states matter-of-factly, running his hand through Sherlock's tousled and slightly damp curls. “God, I missed you so much, you idiot.”

“I know. I've seen the stains on my bedding,” he smirks knowingly. John blushes and swats him on a shoulder.

“I almost forgot what a prick you are.”


End file.
